


Stench of the Slums

by radishleaf



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Assassination, Blood and Violence, F/M, First Impressions, First Meetings, Pre-Canon, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishleaf/pseuds/radishleaf
Summary: Even with another contract fulfilled, the stench of the slums remained the same. Yet, this day proved different when Beruka crossed paths with an insufferable, scruffy-haired boy.
Relationships: Belka | Beruka/Zero | Niles
Kudos: 2





	Stench of the Slums

**Author's Note:**

> what do u mean no one cares about fates anymore or this one rarepair that only has, like, 3 fans??? what do you mean i should give up on nilruka even tho they're my #1 otp ever??? 
> 
> anyway, i still love these two, and just had to write this fic for them. this idea's been sitting in my noggin rent-free for months, so it's about time it paid its dues. this isn't exactly shippy, but if you squint hard enough, you might see something. 
> 
> as always, kindly disregard any grammatical errors, punctuation mistakes, and the like. i tried to be thorough. enjooooy.

The putrid stink of the great unwashed intermingled with the sharp pungency of death hanging low and heavy like a quilt over the slums. Beruka wrinkled her nose from the iron of old blood, but it wasn’t from disgust; such a stench was as common as clean air to her, considering how many she’d slain. She was actually mentally recanting her bad luck as she scoped out the area; it was the most suitable place to take her current target’s life.

The narrow split between a tavern and brothel circled itself around the latter, ending at a creaky shed that appeared it might topple by the slightest of winds. Meat and bone littered its perimeter; it didn’t require a keen eye to discern it was likely the makeshift butchery of the tavern. By the time rot had taken to her target’s body, it’d be mistaken for slain livestock and ignored. It was the most she could hope for, as the contract made it explicitly clear she wanted the man “disappeared” for a few days—the longer, the better.

Beruka couldn’t have cared less for the finer details of the contract. If she was told to kill, she would kill, but her contract filled her in, much to her chagrin: He was a competitor of sorts, pushing his “piss ale”—as the disgruntled woman had put it—onto her usual buyers. They’d given in upon the cheap offer, caring not for the watered-down product, but that it did the job of getting patrons irrevocably drunk. To Beruka, it hadn’t felt like a suitable reason to take a life, but she’d killed others for lesser reasons.

This would be no different, even though the request felt beneath her; desperation had driven her to accepting it. She’d failed her previous assassination, and rebuked by her mentor, she’d no choice but to fend for herself. Even if the requests were petty, worthy of amateurs only, Beruka only had a few coins to her name—barely enough to last the winter. If she didn’t amount a suitable sum before the first cold, she’d starve; another bag of bones for the worms to gnaw at.

She’d survive this long—she wouldn’t give in that easily.

Steeling her resolve, Beruka traced the sharp edge of the dagger through the tattered hem of her skirt. It was a reflexive measure, nothing more, as her eyes remained pinned on the shed’s lone window. Her target’s form moved pendulum-like across the dirtied glass. She would move when he wasn’t within sight; scouting from barrel, to bones, to brush, to the back of the shed. Her steps were feather-light as she hugged the wall; the only sound the faintest scuff of her worn boots against the well-packed dirt.

When Beruka reached the hinges of the door, she slipped her dagger from its sheathe in one smooth movement as her other hand palmed the doorframe. Her haunches began to ache as she held her stance, but not once did she budge; it wasn’t the right moment to strike. Ear pressed against the shed wall, Beruka awaited the creak of the wood beneath the man’s feet, the scrape of shoes in a turn, before the muscles in her legs launched her in attack.

She was upon him before the door hit the opposing wall in a sharp crack, twiggy legs clamping about his middle as her hands sought purchase on any crease in his clothing. This proved difficult; the man was portly—a rare sight in the slums—and unlike Beruka’s usual targets. Though she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, the man nearly barreled over from her weight, favoring her side in a stumble. She grit her teeth as she pulled herself up; she had to quiet him before he yelled for help.

“Wh-what! What’s going on— _mmph!_ ”

With one final shove, Beruka managed to stretch herself up to the man’s shoulders, gaining a firm hold on him. She hastily clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his cries, before she wrenched his head back, baring his neck. Realization had the man widening his eyes to the whites, but before he could fight back, it was too late: with a twist of her wrist, the dagger in hand met the soft skin of the man’s neck, and Beruka pulled with all of the strength she could muster.

The dagger drew across him smoothly, efficiently, as Beruka had done so many times before with some many kills. She felt the metal drive into the meat of him, snap the taut hold of sinew and muscle, before a burst of red spilled down the length of her arm. The man began to gurgle, spasming and clawing nails into her forearm, but Beruka ignored the sting as she forced the dagger deeper.

The strength in the man’s knees faltered, causing Beruka to crash with him to the floor. She landed roughly on her shoulder, grunting, but her hold remained firm. Eventually, the man’s fighting devolved to a weak pawing at her hand. When this desisted, Beruka finally let go, sliding her arm from under him and rising to her feet.

She looked down at him curiously, as if she were studying an interesting dot in the distance. With the heel of her boot, she rolled the man’s corpse over to his front, ignoring how his arm made a wet slap at the growing pool of blood beneath him.

The dead always wore the same face, Beruka noted, when she bent down and tugged her dagger from the corpse: eyes rolled to the back of the skull, face contorted in pain, tongue lolling out the corner of the mouth from one last drawn breath. Beruka knew it was morbid of her to look upon the bodies of her targets so, but it wasn’t borne out of fascination, only wonder.

She asked herself the same questions again and again with each kill: _Is this how I’ll end up when my time comes? Is this how I’ll look?_

She’d ponder this thought and so much more when she left to report her success if there was no danger or need to escape. It brought some calm to her as the rush of adrenaline receded, leaving only a tremble to her limbs. But when Beruka turned on her heel, wiping her dagger clean on her dress, she stilled when she realized she wasn’t alone.

There—haloed in the drafty midafternoon sun—stood a figure clutching the doorframe. He was taller, a good foot or two, with a mop of white atop his head. The young man hadn’t budged an inch, but Beruka could discern the shock on his face. Immediately, she dropped to her haunches and tucked the dagger under own chin.

He wasn’t a threat, but he was a witness—whether this warranted a second kill or not had to determined. Her mentor had warned her against needless slaughter; unless they proved dangerous, even some witnesses should be left to run. Suspicion was second to the security of the contract—it’s what mattered most, he constantly emphasized.

The young man staggered back a step, mouth dropping agape. “H-hoooly _shit_ ,” he cursed.

“State your business,” Beruka demanded.

The young man flashed his palms innocently as his face shifted to cautiousness. Beruka expected more panic from him, but the eyepatch that halved his face in two spoke volumes of an uneasy life. Like her, survival was likely a constant forefront in his mind—such as now.

“Listen, I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I’ll leave, pretend I didn’t see anything, and—”

Beruka’s glare was steely behind the glint of her blade. “ _State your business,_ ” she repeated.

He sighed, hands shifting up in a shrug. “ _Fine_. I’m an errand boy to that sack of shit you just butchered,” he said, cocking his chin at the corpse of Beruka’s target. “I was supposed to run some inventory for him to a tavern across the slums, but I guess not anymore.” He scratched the back of his head in frustration. “That’s a loss.”

“So, you’ve no affiliation to him?”

“Not anymore, since he’s dead.”

Beruka hummed in confirmation. That was the only answered she needed—he wasn’t worth killing. Standing up, she sheathed her dagger, and stepped over the body to make for the door. But when she was within a few paces of it, the young man hadn’t budged; he blocked her exit, arms folded across his chest in expectation. Beruka glanced at him, feigning disinterest in whatever conversation he wanted her to entertain. She just wanted out of there, but the young man wasn’t going to make this easy.

She’d just met him, and immediately, he rankled her the wrong way. She immediately knew he was insufferable, to be a thorn in her side. Part of her desperately wanted to kill him.

“Move,” she said, dashing aside the notion immediately when her mentor’s words echoed in her ears. Yet, this spurred the young man to lean down at her, an eyebrow rose cockily in challenge. “I said _move_.”

“And what’re you going to do about it if I don’t?”

Beruka balled her fists, staring him down over her nose. He was hardly a threat; she’d taken down dozens larger and meaner than him. “I’m not against leaving two bodies here to rot if you so test me.”

She expected him to turn tail and run, for her intimidation to tremble him, but it did just the opposite. The young man threw his head back, barking out a laugh so horrid, Beruka felt her blood boil. It was a strange sensation; she’d been slightly upset before, mostly at inconveniences, but such mocking made something burn. Was this anger? Her hesitation threw her off-guard, making her slightly start when the young man leaned into her space again.

“You’ve got guts,” he said. “I admire that. I really do, but that’s neither here nor there. Right now, you’ve put me in a really inconvenient spot, so you’re going to have to take responsibility.”

Beruka narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

He proffered his hand, lips curling connivingly. “I’m pretty sure you know what I have in mind.”

A deep frown furrowed Beruka’s brow as she glanced between the young man’s callused palm and his infuriating smile. She tilted her head in the direction of the brothel, saying, “You’ve a better chance finding what you desire there.”

The young man snorted. “You’re cute,” he said, “but sorry, kids don’t get my rocks off.”

Beruka huffed. She wasn’t why that single comment got under her skin, but she felt her cheeks prickle with warmth. She’d never been flushed before; is this truly what anger felt like?

“I’m _not_ a child,” she returned.

The young man was taken aback by her reply. His single eye studied her toe to crown twice before he asked, “You’re not? Then how old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“I’m seventeen.”

There was a pinch of delight in seeing the young man wear shock on his face again, but this time, genuine shock. Beruka used this to her advantage, forcefully pushing herself passed him to make for the alley. Just when she thought she’d finally extricated herself from this sudden, scruffy-haired annoyance, the young man caught her under the arm, and pulled her back.

“Release me,” she said immediately.

He tut-tutted her. “No can so, missy. Sure, knowing you’re the same age as put me in a mood, but you still haven’t given me what I wanted.”

Beruka snapped her arm back, pleased when he willingly let her slip from his grasp. “And I already told you: I can’t give you what you want.”

The young man chuckled. “As much as I like where your mind is going, it’s not _that_ what I’m looking for. I’m interested in money—which I know you have a good bit of.”

Beruka blinked at him, clueless.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I _know_ you do, okay? Your exploits are infamous here in the slums; the youthful assassin who has been striking down innocents left and right, fulfilling the contracts of anyone willing to throw you some coin. That’s definitely you, isn’t it?”

Beruka knew her reputation preceded her, but she was struck by the young man’s sharpness. Though she was undoubtedly the murderer of the man in the shack, most would’ve passed her off as another starved child killing in desperation. Maybe even an amateur hoping to work her way up the ranks. Her mentor would’ve been brought up first, but this young man pegged her immediately for who she was. Maybe she should’ve killed him after all.

Beruka’s eyes became narrow slits as she scrutinized him. “I will neither confirm nor deny your inquiry”—she winced when the young man mouthed “I knew it”—“but if it’s money you’re looking for, then I have none. You’re out of luck.”

The young man studied her. “You’re lying,” he said, though his words sounded more desperate than accusatory.

“I’m not.” Her conviction was enough to make the young man frown, loosening the tension in his form. “Even you can agree that killing a “sack of shit”—as you so called him—is beneath me, yes?”

The young man averted his eye. “Ngh…”

“He wouldn’t be worth my perceived reputation.”

The young man threw his hands up in frustration. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he huffed. “You really don’t have anything? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all. You’d probably find more on that corpse there than on my person at the moment.”

The young man began to pace. “Damn the gods,” he cursed beneath his breath. Beruka knew that was a ripe moment for her to leave, but she continued to study him. He’d piqued her interest, despite the circumstances she found herself in. “T-then”—she flinched when the young man jerked around to her—“tell me your name.”

Beruka blinked at him again. “Why?” she asked.

“It has its own worth, knowing the name and face of the most infamous assassin of the slums,” he said, puffing his chest out some. “It’s leverage of sorts; something I can use against you if I ever meet you again.”

“ _If_ you ever meet you again.”

“Oh, I will.”

Beruka scoffed. “Unlikely. Young fools such as yourself perish quickly in the slums.”

“As do cute girls like you in your line of work. But enough beating around the bush, tell me your name already.”

Beruka heavily considered lying to him. She didn’t owe him anything, and considering the frustration he put her through, he wasn’t deserving of it either. But her mind swung back to his sharpness, connecting dots where there hadn’t been any. He'd pick up on her silver tongue immediately, dragging the truth out of her one way or the other (or, considering his euphemistic implications, doing something else entirely to right her supposed debt). She was at a loss either way.

With a sigh, Beruka said, “Have it your way. My name is Beruka.”

The corner of the young man’s lips quirked. “Hm. Cute name for a cute face.” Beruka detested how her stomach leapt at such a statement. “Then I’m Niles. Pleasure to meet you, Beruka.”

Beruka’s lips parted to rebuke him, question why Niles would introduce himself (didn’t that so-called leverage of his lose all power now?), but her mind reeled back to a time past: It was about a year ago, and she’d taken the life of a man under similar circumstances to her current, but that time for a ledger of competitors. She’d recalled a scrawled note tucked into the vestment of the merchant; an IOU signed with a scraggily N. She’d encountered that handle time and time again etched into margins, muttered between lips, listed on notes. It was something of a puzzle that made her curious, but it wasn’t borne out of fascination, only wonder.

She asked herself the same questions again and again with each find: _Is there a face to this letter? Will I ever find out how they look?_

Curiouser still was that she _did_ , even when the mystery surrounding that single letter had long escaped her interest. Suddenly, Beruka felt like she might really meet this Niles again. Such surety perked a small smile to her lips, churning a myriad of emotions in her chest. For some reason, she was looking forward to that future meeting, whenever it may be.

“Likewise,” Beruka replied, turning on her heel. She expected some kind of protest, but it appeared her scruffy-haired annoyance was relinquishing her to her duties. Thank goodness. Before she left, she shifted her chin over her shoulder, and added, “Then I’ll see you later, Niles—whenever that next time is.”

The smile her beamed her way shone brighter than any sun, bellied by something sinister. “Oh yes, I am definitely looking forward to it,” he purred. “Since I’d love for you to honor that previous offer of yours.”

Beruka rolled her eyes, ignoring his words despite the heated blush that crept across her cheeks. She felt emotionally fatigued; never before had she paged through so many inklings in such a short span of time. Shaking her head clear of thoughts, Beruka took off into a run down the alley, not once looking back.

She didn’t have to—she was positive she’d see Niles again really soon.


End file.
